A Mind Of Metal And Wheels
by midtowngirl89
Summary: Season 3 Lit oneshot. Late, late, and the phone is ringing, harshly reverberating in the dark, and doesn’t it know that he’s sleeping?


Summary: Season 3 Literati (eh, sort of) oneshot. He hates answering the phone.

Disclaimer: Do not own Gilmore Girls, etc, etc, go away! Title is a song by Gatsby's American Dream.

A/N: Well now. Where did this come from? Pretty much my own contempt for answering the phone (what's wrong with me?) and I just had to urge to write. It's pretty random and rambly (not even a word), and my English teacher would have a cow if she saw all the run-ons, fragments, and improper grammar. Other than that, enjoy. Reviews are flippin sweet.

XxXxX

He hates answering the phone.

Maybe it's the awkward silence, when the allotted time has been filled or the news has been given, and he's laughing or crying or all around confused as he hangs up. And he's probably aching to end the call and his mother is hesitating on the line, swallowing a vital "I love you."

Perhaps it's the receiver on his ear, the plastic cradled in the space between his head and neck, a crick shaping in his shoulder that'll remind him of this uncomfortable experience in the morning.

Or, it's the forced small talk, over and over and over, that he's not even particularly partial to in person, and the feeling is multiplied through the electrical wires.

Late, late, and the phone is ringing, harshly reverberating in the dark, and doesn't it know that he's sleeping? His head's on the pillow, and his limbs are lying deadly beneath sheets, and one would think this would signify sleep. But in reality, his eyes have been open for hours, plus the hours when he wasn't pretending the sleep, and it's hurting his head. Ring, ring, ring. He's moving like a zombie with cement appendages.

"Hello," he's speaking, more of a statement than a question, yes, but he's not thinking and punctuation in speech is wasted.

"Jess?" a shy voice, a _girl_ voice asks. At this point, he's questioning his sanity: late night girls don't call him, because he's not their boyfriend and he won't tell them "sweet dreams" in a whisper over a static line when they're missing his voice. No, but maybe he'll come over because he's good for the slick lips and the tousled hair, and they won't be sleeping, but they'll dream when he leaves through the window. And he thinks that evens out, in his twisted logic.

"He's not here right now, but maybe if you called at an hour when anyone besides a nocturnal animal is awake, he might be." Severe, but that's just him --- and it can't be anyone of importance. It's early in some parts of the world and telemarketers just don't quit, he thinks.

"Oh, I---I, sorry…"

"Wait…Rory?" His mind suddenly clicks. No, he's still puzzled after all, her stuttering lingering in his ear. Shouldn't his name be Dean and shouldn't he be eagerly responding into the speaker? This is a night when he thinks he's been ingesting the acidic liquids, throat burning, brain fogging alcohol.

"Yeah. I shouldn't have called; I don't know what I was thinking." Jess smiles, just a little, no full blown, toothy grin like he's sure Dean would have worn. Just a warped, pretentious smirk, because he knows she's lying through those curious lips and refusing small, inevitable sighs. "I'm hanging up now."

"Wait." He's not one to repeat himself, a broken, broken record. Immediately he regrets this request to her, and he's distorting his fingers together as an anxious habit, and perhaps _he_ should hang up. It's almost certainly a dream, anyways, and tomorrow is going to be hell when he thinks this might have actually happened.

"Jess?" she asks, again; they've both got an odd practice of reiterating. He's breathing quite surreptitiously, fishing for clean air around his smoke infested clothes, so he sees how she could think he's finally replaced the phone in its facedown position on the counter.

"I'm here." Confirmed. He can't say anything more than that, though he's bursting with words and pretty words that she'd like if he happened to string them together in any sort of presentable manner. That's too much to ask, as far as he's concerned.

"I---I have to go," Rory stammers, thick-lipped. Inhale. The dial tone stings his ear. Exhale, but slowly, and he's stumbling back into his bed, again with the stone legs and weighty arms.

He hates answering the phone.


End file.
